Hunt the Toff

by John Creasey

  VIII

  FRIEND IN NEED

  Rollison lay back in a large and comfortable armchair, his eyes still closed as if in sleep, but his ears alert. He had been wakened by a slight sound in the next room – a creaking, as of bed springs. This was a small flat in the heart of Mayfair, not far from Gresham Terrace, and he had come straight here the previous night, opening the front door with a key. The tenant of the flat had arrived some time after midnight, and gone into the kitchen and made coffee, while Rollison had hidden in a small but tall cupboard in the living-room. There were two rooms and a kitchen, small but modern.

  After the tenant had gone to bed, Rollison had helped himself to some of the coffee, eaten some biscuits and a piece of cheese, and settled himself for the night in the easy-chair. He had taken the precaution of locking the bedroom door, to make sure that he could not be surprised during the night.

  The bed creaked again.

  Rollison got up, rubbed his eyes, and went into the little cubicle called, by courtesy, a hall. A newspaper was poking through the letter-box. He pulled it out, taking care not to make a noise, and opened it. It was the Record. He read the headline and the story, his lips twisted wryly.

  He walked across the carpeted floor to the kitchen, closed the door, put on a kettle, and made tea. Fifteen minutes after he had wakened up he went to the bedroom door carrying a tea-tray. The bed creaked again, and he thought he heard a sigh, a yawn, or a mutter of exasperation. He turned the key in the lock, and it made a slight noise.

  He sensed the abrupt tension in the bedroom.

  He tapped, and called, ‘Your tea, madam.’

  A girl gasped, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The waiter, madam!’

  The springs creaked; she was getting out of bed. He backed a pace. If he knew Iris Cartwright as he thought he did, she would pull open the door and brandish a weapon. So he kept at a safe distance. There were odd sounds, as if she were creeping towards the door, and he saw the handle turn. Then she pulled the door open and rushed forward, flinging an ashtray at him.

  He ducked, and hot tea spilled from the spout of the teapot, and stung his little finger.

  ‘Peace!’ he cried.

  She stood with her arm raised to throw another missile, a girl of medium height, nicely built, wearing a bright-blue dressing-gown. She had fair hair, now in a net and with metal curlers at the sides. Her face was shiny without make-up. She stared at him, eyes and mouth rounded, and gradually lowered her arm. The second missile, a brass paper-weight, dropped heavily to the floor.

  ‘I’m glad that didn’t hit me on the head,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Richard, you fool!’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. Like a cup of tea?’

  ‘How on earth did you get in?’

  ‘I walked.’

  ‘But I locked—’

  ‘I had a key. Remember?’

  ‘I bolted the door.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘I was here last night, but didn’t think you’d be in a mood for talking. I hid there.’

  He pointed behind him with one hand as he balanced the tray on the other, and went in. There was a large single bed of sycamore, fitted furniture, freshness and brightness everywhere. Iris’s clothes were neatly folded over a chair, and her dress had been put away. She backed to the bed and sat down heavily; she had nice ankles.

  ‘Back into bed, and you can have luxury. Mind if I sit here and have a cup with you?’

  ‘Richard, what is all this? I don’t understand you.’ She gulped. ‘I remember I gave you a key, but that was months ago, when I was so scared. There was that beastly business going on about my people, and you thought I was in danger.’

  She swung her legs into the bed, pulled the blanket and sheet over her, and fiddled with the pillows so as to make herself more comfortable. All this, while Rollison poured tea. He handed her a cup, sat back in a small armchair, and ran a hand over his stubble.

  ‘You’ll have to get me a razor,’ he said.

  ‘Richard, what is the matter?’

  ‘I’m a villain, overnight. Iris – how’s your memory?’

  ‘It’s always all right, but …’

  ‘Good! Then you’ll remember, after your mother and father were cleared of that ugly suspicion of murder and everything was going swimmingly again, you said that there was nothing in the world you wouldn’t do for me.’

  She coloured.

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘I shall soon know whether you meant it,’ said Rollison, and tossed the Record to her.

  She read the headline, stared at him, read the article, and looked at him again – and then she began to sip her tea. She was determinedly counting ten. Iris Cartwright, victim of an impulsive nature, had tried counting ten before committing herself to anything for a long time; and occasionally she succeeded.

  ‘And I suppose you want me to hide you,’ she said at last.

  ‘That’s right, Iris. For a little while.’

  ‘Why on earth did you come here?’

  ‘There were three reasons. First, I had a key. Second, because I thought you’d turn your nose up at the police, they guessed wrong so often about your parents. And third, because I can’t imagine anyone doing what I want you to do half as successfully as you.’

  He sipped his tea, then took out cigarettes.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t smoke before lunch. Richard, do you know anything about this murder?’

  ‘I knew Keller. I also knew Marion …’

  She sniffed.

  ‘That’s obvious.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘Anyone bursting in on us now would talk about things being obvious, and how wrong he’d be.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Iris. She looked at the newspaper again. ‘She’s rather nice looking, isn’t she? Anyhow, your private life is nothing to do with me, but – I can’t hide you here. Not for long, that is. Tomorrow night I’ve a friend coming to stay. I could put her off, but it would be awfully difficult. Anyhow …’

  Iris broke off.

  Rollison didn’t speak.

  Iris said in a husky voice, ‘I’m sorry, Richard. Of course I’ll put her off, if necessary, and I don’t care what people might say. How can I help?’

  ‘Now that really is my Iris,’ said Rollison. ‘The first thing I need is to get a message to Jolly. He’s away at the moment, but he’ll be back in London on the first train after he hears the news. After an early lunch, you can telephone my flat – you’ll recognise Jolly’s voice, won’t you?’

  ‘Good heavens, yes!’

  ‘And you’ll give him a message which will fool the police, who’ll probably be listening in,’ said Rollison. ‘And after that, you might see if you can get in touch with a certain Mr. Reginald Rowse, who wants to marry Marion. He owns a chain of cigarette shops.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Iris, almost eagerly.

  ‘And then you’ll go and see my Aunt Gloria, who—’

  ‘You know, Richard, sometimes you just make things difficult for the sake of it. Why should I tell Jolly and ask for trouble with the police? They would be bound to find out. The best thing to do is to go and see your aunt. I can tell her, and she can tell Jolly. Of course, you don’t agree, but—’

  ‘Oh, I agree. I’m both humbled and gratified. I chose exactly the right place to come for calm and common sense. Go and see Old Glory, as soon as you can. There may be a policeman outside her flat – if there is, dodge him.’

  ‘Pooh,’ said Iris scornfully, ‘I’ll telephone her and arrange to meet her for coffee or something this morning. Get out! I must get up.’

  Rollison got up hastily, collected the tray and her cup and saucer, and went out. He washed up. He was ravenous, but that was momentarily forgotten when he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror; his stubble was much more black than grey. He washed, wondering if Iris had a spare toothbrush.

  She came rushing into the kitchen, wearing a green dres
s, with her hair combed out, and make-up on.

  ‘It’s nearly half past nine!’

  ‘Well, you can’t have coffee much before eleven.’

  ‘There’s a lot to do before eleven,’ said Iris, ‘and I want some breakfast. You’ll find a razor and some shaving-cream in the bathroom. I keep it because father nearly always forgets his, and a new toothbrush, the one with the green handle. You can have’—she glanced at the mantelpiece clock—’exactly twenty minutes.’

  Rollison bathed and shaved and was in the kitchen in exactly nineteen minutes. Bacon was under the grill, toast in a rack, eggs frying in bubbling fat. There was just room for a small table in the kitchen, and a green cloth was spread over it, with some knives and forks and crockery in no kind of order.

  ‘If you want to be useful, lay the table,’ said Iris. ‘I hope you have tea for breakfast.’

  Iris spent three minutes of concentrated energy on dishing up, then put a well-filled plate at each end of the table, shook and licked her fingers because the plates were hot, and sat down.

  ‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ murmured Rollison. ‘Don’t you ever think of your figure?’

  ‘My figure’s all right,’ said Iris, truthfully.

  She ate with obvious relish, was as natural as if they breakfasted with each other every day of the week. Towards the end of the meal her attention wandered from the food and she kept glancing at the newspaper.

  ‘Richard, are you really in danger?’

  ‘It looks rather like it.’

  ‘This isn’t bluff or anything, is it? I mean, you haven’t made an arrangement with the police so that some crooks think you’re on the run, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you kill this Keller man, Richard?’ she added, ‘please don’t lie to me. I don’t care what you’ve done, but I do want to know. I mean, if you had a fight with this man and he died, it would be self-defence or justifiable homicide or something, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I wasn’t within thirty miles of him when he died.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes were filled with speculation. ‘Richard, during our family trouble, you were always telling me that although the police slipped up sometimes, they were usually right. They know all about you, they’ve a great respect for you, I could tell that. Surely they wouldn’t issue a warrant for your arrest if they weren’t pretty sure of themselves.’

  ‘They’re sure,’ said Rollison.

  ‘I see. What about this girl, Elizabeth-sometimes-known-as-Marion-Lane? Did she do it?’

  ‘That’s what all the argument is about. She was with me at the time, but they think she was somewhere else. I’m defending a maiden’s honour.’

  ‘Honour!’ exclaimed Iris sceptically. ‘I suppose she was one of your flames – oh, that doesn’t matter, and if neither of you did it no one can prove you did. But what on earth made you run away?’

  ‘Remind me, some time, that I have to apologise to Grice,’ said Rollison.

  ‘What I can’t understand is how you’ll be able to help yourself, skulking away somewhere like this,’ said Iris, with blistering frankness. ‘I mean, there isn’t much you can do, is there? You’ll have all your work cut out to keep away from the police. If you leave here, you’ll probably run into them. What is it you want to do?’

  ‘Find the lady.’

  ‘But she’s wanted by the police, and may be under arrest by now.’

  ‘They’re only watching her.’

  ‘I suppose you know what you’re about,’ said Iris. ‘Great Scott, it’s twenty-past ten!’ She jumped up. ‘I’ll telephone your aunt – I don’t suppose her line will be tapped, will it?’

  ‘Just tell her how upset you are and can you help and you must see her.’

  ‘All right. You can wash up,’ said Iris, and hurried from the room.

  Rollison heard Iris talking on the telephone, saying nothing that could easily arouse the suspicions of any policeman who might be listening in. There was a practical common sense about Iris. She came in breezily.

  ‘Eleven o’clock, Fortnum and Mason’s,’ she announced. ‘I’ll have to fly. If anyone comes, don’t answer the door.’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ murmured Rollison.

  ‘And now tell me what to say to your aunt, please.’

  Rollison talked earnestly for ten minutes, and later, from the window, watched her walking along the street. She disappeared round a corner.

  A few minutes later Rollison heard a small car snorting along the street, and caught a glimpse of Iris driving a red two-seater as if she were nearing the end of a road race.

  Lady Gloria Hurst looked out of the window of her flat, after Iris had telephoned, and saw a large man strolling up and down. She did not need telling that he was a detective; and his presence did not surprise her. The police would expect Richard to get in touch with her, with Jolly, or with that remarkable rough diamond, William Ebbutt; and because they meant to catch him, they would have all three closely watched. She even considered the possibility that her telephone line was tapped, but was reassured because Iris had said nothing to suggest that she knew where Rollison was; only that she was desperately worried, and did want to try to help – and said more, between the lines.

  The police were quite capable of reading between the lines. If they had been listening, they knew of the appointment at Fortnum and Mason’s.

  She touched the telephone, to ring for a taxi – and the bell pealed out. She felt a spasm of nervousness.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘There’s a personal call from Bournemouth for Lady Gloria Hurst. Is Lady Gloria available, please.’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’ Personal? Bournemouth?

  ‘Hold on, please. You’re through, caller, Lady Gloria is on the line.’

  A measured voice came clearly, familiar and warmly welcome.

  ‘Good morning, my lady,’ said Jolly. ‘I felt that I must speak to you as quickly as I could. I am at Bournemouth Central Station, and shall be in the train in five minutes, reaching Waterloo a little before one, if the train is punctual.’

  ‘That’s good news, Jolly.’

  ‘I suppose …’ began Jolly, and paused.

  ‘You haven’t …’ began Lady Gloria, and stopped.

  ‘I have not had any communication from Mr. Rollison for several days, my lady,’ said Jolly. ‘I read the news in the papers this morning, it was a complete surprise and a severe shock. The one thing obvious, of course, is that the police are gravely wrong.’

  ‘Yes, Jolly, of course.’

  ‘And I shall exert myself in every way to prove that,’ said Jolly. ‘I feel sure that you will be equally anxious, and wondered if I might make an appointment to see you as soon as I reach London.’

  ‘Go straight to Gresham Terrace and wait there for me,’ said Lady Gloria.

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  ‘And don’t sound so down in the mouth,’ said Lady Gloria.

  When she rang off, she stood quite still, looking at the wall. The shadow of fear remained in her eyes; and she knew that it was in Jolly’s. There was dread in both of them – that Rollison had for once made a mistake, had plunged into mystery and been trapped by his own daring.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Lady Gloria said aloud, and telephoned for a taxi to call for her at twenty minutes to eleven.

  Grice didn’t leave his office for lunch that day, but had sandwiches sent up from the canteen, while he ploughed through a mass of papers and memos. Reports that Rollison had been seen during the morning came from all parts of London, all over the Home Counties, as far north as Manchester, and as far south as Devon.

  Now and again, Grice touched his chin, gingerly.

  At half past one the telephone rang.

  ‘Grice speaking.’

  ‘Sergeant Middleton here, sir, to report.’

  ‘Yes, Middleton.’

  Grice was eager.

  ‘I’ll repeat some of it, sir, if I may. Lady Gloria went to Fortnum and Mason�
�s at eleven o’clock, and spent an hour there with Miss Iris Cartwright – who is an acquaintance of Rollison’s. Lady Gloria left there on foot and reached Gresham Terrace at a quarter to one. She was allowed to enter, without being questioned, sir, and she had her own key.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At twenty past one, Jolly arrived.’

  ‘I knew he’d left Bournemouth,’ Grice said.

  ‘He was questioned at the street door, but allowed to go up,’ said Middleton. ‘As instructed, microphones were installed in all the rooms in Rollison’s flat, and wherever they talk, it should be picked up.’

  ‘Good,’ said Grice.

  ‘That’s all, sir.’

  ‘What about the Cartwright girl?’

  ‘She bought some groceries and provisions at Fortnum and Mason’s and went back to her flat. I sent a man to make enquiries, but she hasn’t had any visitors as far as we can trace. Shall I have the flat watched?’

  ‘Might be as well,’ said Grice, ‘although I can’t see Rollison putting Miss Cartwright on the spot. Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing you don’t know, sir. The Lane girl is still at Kensington. She hasn’t had any visitors, but your instructions were to hold off for a bit.’

  ‘Make quite sure she can’t get away,’ said Grice. ‘And tell me as soon as Lady Gloria has left Rollison’s flat. Then I’ll send for Jolly and have him questioned, while you put on those records and find out what they said.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Sergeant Middleton.

  IX

  THE WISDOM OF JOLLY

  Jolly stepped inside the flat, and Lady Gloria, tall and regal of figure, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a dark dress and looking cool in spite of it, came forward from the living-room. Jolly was in a black coat and striped trousers and wore a grey cravat.

  ‘Have you heard from him, Jolly?’

  Lady Gloria gripped Jolly’s hand.

  ‘I’m afraid not, my lady,’ said Jolly. ‘It is extremely unlikely that he would get in touch with either of us direct.’

  He felt the pressure of her fingers, and guessed there was a reason for it – guessed also that her loud question had been intended for the ears of any Yard man who might be waiting on the landing.